


Beneath the black and blue

by PunkyNemo (TheVampireCat)



Category: Daredevil (TV), The Punisher (TV 2017)
Genre: Canon Typical Violence, Confessions, Drinking, F/M, Frank and his mind running away with him, Kastle exchange week, Mainly kastle, Matt and Elektra are very much a secondary ship, Post S1 of the Punisher, Sexual Situations, inner monologue, mention of a child's death
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-27
Updated: 2018-06-27
Packaged: 2019-05-29 12:33:26
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,612
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15073244
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheVampireCat/pseuds/PunkyNemo
Summary: Dying’s easy.But living... Living is the hardest thing he's ever had to do.





	Beneath the black and blue

 

 _Fight_.

 

Maria...? Maria, is that you?

 

_Fight goddamnit Frank, fight._

 

And then a fist, crashing through his face and he feels the cartilage in his nose crack, pain blooming everywhere and nowhere all at once.

 

There's two of them, both big burly Russians covered in gang tattoos they're too young to understand the significance of, and they've been working him over for hours in this old abandoned warehouse that stinks of petrol and kerosene. And they might be shoddy, they might be trying to deliver maximum pain over minimum time and there's no finesse to their methods, but then again, they're brutes, not sociopaths. They don't know the value of a reprieve or a glimmer of hope. They don't know how to use that to make things worse.

 

Amateurs.

 

Still though, he's about ready to pack it in, once and for all. He's not going to tell them why he's here or how he got here so honestly, the only thing left really is to die.

 

_No! You’re going to fight!_

 

This doesn’t happen often anymore - his dead wife in his head, so real he can almost believe she’s there. It used to. He used to see her a lot. Her and the kids and then he told them they weren't home anymore and they seemed to take that as a request to leave him alone.

 

He didn't mean it that way but he guesses it's for the best.

 

In the end everyone's worm food. Everyone's dust. It doesn't matter if Maria wants him or not, he's coming back to her one way or another.

 

_Fight goddamnit, fight._

 

Alright maybe not today then. Apparently she doesn't want him back right now. Can't say he blames her. The Frank Castle she knew doesn't exist anymore. She took that one into the grave with her.

 

Another fist, another terrible sound of bone grinding on bone and pain flares up the side of his jaw as his head snaps back.

 

Another tooth. He spits it out onto the concrete floor, a shiny white bead in a splash of black blood.

 

It's almost worth dying just to not have to face the dentist again.

 

_No! Live._

 

Okay, okay hang on Maria. You said “fight”. You didn't say a damn thing about living. That wasn't part of the deal. They're two very different things, my girl. You can't just shift the goalposts like that. It doesn't work that way.

 

_Fight. Live._

 

This is so terribly unfair.

 

Fist to his face and his neck twists painfully to the right and then the left. He hears something burst and when he opens his eyes he can't see anything other than red. He wonders if that's his blood or if they've damaged something else; if he gets to fight and live, but be blind. And wouldn't that be a thing? He could join forces with Murdock and maybe his buddy with the stick - _three blind mice, three blind mice, see how they run_ \- and they could clean up the streets together.

 

And then he remembers he already has. Because if it wasn't for a very uncomfortable arrangement he has with Red, he wouldn't be here pretty much stapled to this chair and getting the shit kicked out of him.

 

Apparently a pretty blonde with blue eyes and a hand cannon in her purse can convince him to do just about anything. He wonders when he got this sappy, but he knows the answer to that too.

 

Maybe Karen Page is worth going blind for. Maybe she's worth a lot more than that too.

 

But then his vision clears and he blinks the blood out of his eyes and something, maybe a fist, maybe a foot connects with his side and his kidneys, and _fuck this shit_ because if he lives he's going to be pissing blood for a week and between that and the teeth, he's not sure there's much reason to carry on.

 

_No. You fight. You live._

 

Babe, we spoke about this. You can't have both. You can't talk about them like they're interchangeable because you know they ain't. You knew that every time you drove me to the goddamn airport and watched me get on a plane to go die in a desert somewhere.

 

Maria never did listen to him. He thinks that's one of the myriad reasons he loved her.

 

And she's not listening now. Not listening as he cries out when his arm is wrenched out of its socket nor when he sees a fucking screwdriver heading for his eye.

 

Seriously, fuck these guys. Fuck ‘em.

 

_Live._

 

You make it sound easy, but you got this wrong way around. Dying is easy. I've died so many times that I'm used to it. I like it.

 

But living? Yeah living ain't so easy when you got two guys with knuckles dusters turning your face to a pulp. Living ain't so easy when your cuffed to a goddamn chair and you can't move. Living ain't so easy when your wife and kids are nothing but bones in the ground.

 

 _Fight_.

 

So she's determined. She's made up her mind. She's decided. And he knows when Maria's decided on something changing her mind is about as easy as drawing blood from a stone.

 

But he really doesn't want to fight. The world is spinning and his head is pounding like the devil himself is trying to break out of his skull and if he was in a laughing mood right now he’d appreciate the image that evokes, all things considered.

 

But it's not the devil. It’s Maria and she’s telling him to fight.

 

So he does.

 

He leans to the side, spits blood again and looks up at the men working him over like he's a piece of old tough meat.

 

“That all you got?”

 

~~~

 

He'd like to say he's not sure how exactly this started, how he ended being part of what could only be considered some twisted hybrid game of broken - and not so broken - telephone, but he can't. He knows exactly how.

 

Between that .38, those blue eyes and a couple of words that cut him to the quick as fast as they mend him, there's not a lot he can't be convinced to do. Not a lot he'll say no to.

 

_Damn you Karen Page. Damn you to hell… which is exactly where I'll be waiting. Because I always am when it comes to you._

 

It's true. He is. He wasn't in the beginning. He was too caught up in the rage and the pain and the ashes of what he lost, but he is now. And when she came to him that one cold night in early February; arrived at his apartment and told him she needed his help, he saw it as it just another job, another scumbag to clean off the streets. And sure, it was different because it was her doing the asking and even then he knew he'd chop off his own limbs if Karen Page just casually mentioned that might be something he should consider doing.

 

The problem was simple really and she explained it in that efficient and yet strangely soulful way she tends to approach everything. A child, found dead in the river, his stuffed bear - one ear missing - floating next to him, his blood almost but not quite washed out of the fake polyester fur.

 

Had he heard about it? Had he?

 

He had. Had seen it on the news. Awful thing it was.

 

Yeah but did he know they'd made an arrest?

 

No, no he didn't know that. He thought he saw Mahoney on TV making a plea for anyone with any information to come forward - not exactly the statement of a man who has an arrest under his belt. And even if he had and wanted to keep it under wraps, how did she know?

 

She smiled then. She has her sources. She's a reporter. It's her job. Also her, Matt and Elektra figured out really early on that it was the kid’s uncle.

 

He didn't ask about that. He didn't need to.

 

Okay, so he’ll bite. What is she doing here and what's this got to do with him? If they got the scumbag who did this and Mahoney has him locked up then doesn't that mean it's over?

 

She pursed her lips, leaned against his counter.

 

_Well, Frank that's the problem. They don't have anyone in custody anymore._

 

She'd gone to his fridge then and taken out two beers, popped the tabs and handed one to him, and he wondered when this happened and she got so comfortable with him that his stuff had gone up for grabs.

 

He guesses it always was that way.

 

And then she kicked her shoes off and sat down on one of the bar stools at his kitchen island, crossed her legs and he tried not to spend too long looking at the line of her leg and the space where her thigh disappeared into her black pencil skirt that clung to her like a second skin.

 

She told him that they found the poor kid’s things at his uncle’s house along with the torn ear of the bear. They even found the murder weapon and Frank trembled a little when she told him what it was.

 

So they brought him in and gave him to Mahoney. They basically hand delivered him. All that was missing was a big bow and a greeting card. But someone botched the investigation. Something went wrong and Mahoney had to let him go.

 

He had no choice, she said and the way she said it tells him that she most definitely thought there was a choice.

 

But choice or not, this man who committed this reprehensible crime is out on the streets and there's nothing anyone can do.

 

Except there is.

 

And that's where Frank comes in. That's where he always comes in. The last resort in this little bloodied daisy chain they've got going.

 

Matt's innocent choir boy hands were - and still are - naturally tied, even if Elektra is completely on board. Karen didn't say it like that but he got the gist of it. Red doesn't kill. He won't. And maybe part of Frank envies that Red allows himself this privilege. Maybe it means he can sleep at night. Then again, being happy to tear a man limb from limb has its benefits too. And when he looked at Karen Page’s big blue eyes as she watched him over her beer he realised that she knew it too.

 

So he did as she asked. He tracked that waste of a human skin down and made sure his concrete shoes were nice and heavy, and the bottom of the frozen Hudson was a good place for a grave.

 

And that's how it started. That's how one night in February led to him getting the shit kicked out of him this night in September.  

 

That's why he's going to die.

 

_Yeah Maria, sorry, but you know how that is._

 

In the beginning they all laid out the ground rules, him, Karen, Red and Elektra. It wasn't a pleasant gathering. Not at all. But they figured it out, came to something resembling an agreement.

 

There was Miss Page and her “sources” and the promise extracted from him that in the first instance when things like this happened and the police were overwhelmed or complicit, every initial attempt would be about doing it the “right” way. Murdock’s way. Knock them down and hope they don't get back up again. But when they do - and in Hell's Kitchen that's more often than one might guess - that's when he gets involved.

 

She's the beginning, he's the end. What happens in the middle is largely immaterial.

 

Red doesn't like it but that was to be expected. He also accepts it and Frank thinks it might have a thing or two to do with the vampy lady with the Sai blades he seems unable to get out of his system. Not that he can blame Red. Not at all. There's a couple of ladies Frank can't get out of his system either - one dead but one very much alive and yeah, she's a problem. He's not going to say she isn't.

 

He’ll literally run into hell if she asked, set himself on fire if she complained of a chill. Karen Page might just be the death of him and he doesn't care about that at all. There are worse ways to go than in her service.

 

He thinks he might be doing that now. He thinks he might actually be dying just because she asked him to. Each time a fist lands on his face or a knee in his kidneys he thinks he gets a little closer to it and he doesn't mind. It's for a good cause after all.

 

Except of course for one thing. One small thing he can't ignore.

 

 _Live_.

 

Goddamnit Maria. Goddamnit.

 

He wonders if he would change anything if he could go back - back to the beginning or just back to tonight when she arrived at his place with a name and an address and a bunch of crime scene photos of dismembered bodies just in case he needed any more incentive other than her words and her smile - and he’s honestly not sure he would. Maybe he would have been better prepared. Maybe he would have staked the place out better, not let them get the jump on him so easily. But no, he wouldn't have given this time up for anything.

 

And it has very little to do with the work itself even if that was a happy side effect. It was always about her.

 

In the beginning he waited a lot. Waited for his phone to buzz and Karen's picture to appear on the screen. It wasn't of her of course - he’s not that careless - but a couple of white roses, her entry under “ma'am .38” which was something she got a kick out of because it sounded like the screen name of some online kinkster looking for a hookup.

 

 _I feel like you should add that I'm into roleplay and dirty talk,_ she said when she saw it and he'd found it hard to look her in the eye and his cheeks burned. She wouldn't let him change it though and now it's become more of an inside joke than anything else.

 

So she'd call or better, she'd come round and tell him about some piece of shit that got away, that either had too slick of a lawyer or someone accidentally on purpose fucked up at the precinct and he'd nod and go take care of it.

 

And that’s why he still waits for her. That's why he's always waiting for her. And that's not the entirety of it, but if he had to accept the other reason - the bigger one - he's not quite sure he could carry on doing what he does and being who he is.

 

He'd already die for her but things get complicated when he's expected to live.

 

_Yeah Maria. Yeah. I heard you, girl. I just can't change how death works. I tried that already._

 

That screwdriver is closer now. Somewhere he hears someone saying to hold his head up, get the angle just right. They're gonna pop that peeper like a water balloon.

 

 _Think it'll make him prettier?_   One of them asks, accent thick.

 

_Can't make him any uglier._

 

These guys.

 

Hilarious.

 

They also can't seem to figure out if they actually want to take his eye or just carry in kicking him. They're not focused, trying too many things at once - blades under fingernails, a blowtorch on his bicep. They’re like two stupid kids with a bunch of new toys and they don’t know what they want to use first. Frank finds that kind of lackadaisical approach to wetwork very distasteful.

 

“Come on,” he says. “What is this? Amateur fuckin’ hour?”

 

A short sharp burst of laughter, something someone with a larger vocabulary than him might call a guffaw.

 

“Tough guy hey?” One of them says.

 

_Well tougher than you asshole. But that ain't hard._

 

“Okay, you want us to speed things up? Let's do it. Even going to give you the choice Mr Castle. Left eye or right? Which one you want us to take first?”

 

“You need me to show you how to hold it too? You guys able to find your own asses?”

 

If you're gonna go down, you may as well go down swinging.

 

Except apparently he's not going down. Not yet.

 

Gunshots. Three of them, and they ricochet off the ceiling and echo through the concrete warehouse bouncing off the walls.

 

He thinks he must be hallucinating. He must be, because what he's seeing can't be real. It must be a fever dream or another of those near death visions because it's too unbelievable to be true.

 

Except it is.

 

Somehow.

 

Karen Page.

 

Karen Page and she's ditched the pencil skirt and the high heels for dark jeans and boots and she's stalking across the asphalt towards them with a gun held out in front of her. And no, it's not the .38. It's one of his, unregistered and illegal, that he left at her place just in case she needed it. Clever. She always was such a clever girl.

 

And even through the red cloud and the pain shooting up his side where his arm has been popped out of the socket, he feels that surge of something he's been trying to ignore since Karen Page and the hand cannon in her purse stepped into his life. It's warm and sweeter than he'd like to admit and it does something to him where he can't think straight.

 

Okay, okay he admits it, there's something about Karen Page and a gun. Something that gets to him and makes him question himself in a very specific way that he'd possibly not want to wonder too much about. Something about the way she holds it, two hands, arm bent and ready to counter any recoil, shoulders squared.

 

“No one is taking anything else of his.”

 

Her voice is heavy, strained even. She's not scared though. She's pissed and determined and he's heard that voice before. Once. Once when she threatened to unload her gun in his face and he had no doubt she would.

 

Oh god, there's really is something about Karen Page and a gun.

 

“Let him go, or I swear to Christ, I will shoot you both.”

 

The Russians look at each other, then at him and back to her.

 

The one shrugs, the other one sniggers.

 

“Bitch wouldn't dare.”

 

Oh boys… oh dear. This isn't going to end well for you.

 

And it doesn’t.

 

The one with the screwdriver suddenly swings his arm high, an almost perfect arc aimed right at Frank’s eye and he sees the point barreling towards him and then a gunshot, bullet flying so close to his face he's sure he can see the grooves on it as it rips through the man’s hand, sends the screwdriver flying across the room.

 

And then screaming and yelling, blood erupting from the wound and the man clutches his hand against his chest, bending over as the tears spurt from his eyes.

 

And then Karen Page standing on the other side of the gunsmoke.

 

_Well, shit._

 

If there was something about Karen Page and a gun, Karen Page actually using it takes it to a whole new level, one that he caught glimpses of once when she plugged Lewis in the foot but also managed to push away in the face of more pressing matters at the time.

 

It's different now.

 

_Oh god, Karen Page. You know you can quite literally take a man’s breath away._

 

“Fucking bitch shot me. Fucking bitch.”

 

Now that ain't any way to talk about a lady.

 

“Let him go,” she says. “Untie him.”

 

For a few seconds nobody does anything. The two Russians gape at her and she glares back and then when the moment stretches too long and too thin, she slowly adjusts her grip on the gun and pulls the hammer down with an audible click.

 

“I said untie him.”

 

The men look at one another again and then the unwounded one goes to work on the knots binding his hands. They take too long and every time the rope pulls, the bones in his shoulder grind against one another and he lets out a groan that's more of a whimper.

 

Eventually they're done though, and he stands on shaking legs. The room spins and he spits more blood onto the floor, and then tries to focus on her.

 

She hasn't moved but when she nods at him to come over to her.

 

Behind her, he senses more than hears or sees someone peeling out of the shadows followed by a movement so smooth he almost misses it.

 

Red. Well, he should have guessed as much. Despite the fact that sometimes his priorities get a little confused, his affection and concern for Karen is genuine so it's not surprising he'd turn up to save the day if he thought she was in over her head.

 

Although - and Frank accepts he could be wrong about this - he doesn't think she is. He doesn't think she is at all.

 

She's got this. Girl with a gun.

 

Behind Red he sees something else; the glint of dark metal, a hooked blade, not sharp yet deadly and Elektra slides out of the shadows too. So he brought her or - and this is more likely - she didn't give him a choice about coming. That's just the way things are when someone is so deep under your skin that being away from them feels like tearing yourself apart, and being away from them when they could be in danger is basically the same as dying.

 

He looks at Karen through the red haze and tells himself he doesn't know what that means for them, even if she's living proof of exactly what he knew all along.

 

It complicates things between them but then again, they were never simple.

 

“Bitch,” the man with the hole in his hand says again, saliva flying out between his clenched teeth and Frank takes a moment to consider that this can't end here like this with everyone going home and forgetting it ever happened.

 

They won't let them be, not after this. Karen Page has a target on her and there's really only one thing for it.

 

He glances at her gun and then at her and she nods almost imperceptibly. She knows it too. She always did. But whether Karen Page actually has it in her to kill someone in cold blood who isn't posing an immediate threat to her or someone she loves (and he firmly cuts himself out of that equation, even if she's just proved the exact opposite) then he's not so sure.

 

He takes a staggering step forward, glances at the petrol drum to the left.

 

 _Live_.

 

Yeah babe, I'm trying. You even sent the damn cavalry in. Just give me a moment to remember how to walk.

 

The room spins again and pain flares anew up his arm and clutching at it just makes it worse.

 

“Help him,” she jerks her head towards him and for a second he thinks she's lost her mind and she's talking to the Russians, but then he sees Red stepping out into the light, focusing nervously on her.

 

“Karen…” his voice is soft, uneasy, maybe even a little confused. Maybe it has something to do with the gun and the way she's shooting it but then again Red never did get the full picture when it came to her.

 

It's okay. She's not the easiest person to get if you're not paying attention.

 

“Help him damnit.”

 

Murdock hesitates but Elektra pushes past both of them, jogs over to him and wedges a shoulder under his dislocated arm and he groans as she forces them both upright.

 

“Big bad Punisher eh?” she says but there’s no malice in her voice and he leans heavily on her until Murdock makes his way over to both of them and grabs his other arm.

 

Well, this is embarrassing.

 

But at least he's living like Maria told him to.

 

And then suddenly he isn't.

 

He's not sure how he knew. He didn't hear or see anything and as it is, both these goddamn bouncy ninjas that are holding him up have got bat hearing and a sense of smell that bloodhound would envy, so if there was anything to sense they would have done it. But they don’t. They don't because trusting your gut on a visceral level really is something you only learn when you're watching your buddies getting blown up in a foreign desert and when there's smoke and sirens in the air and the world is coming undone around you and you know there is only one way you get out of this alive and figuring out exactly what that is has nothing to do with knowing shit. It's purely instinct. You either have it or you don't. And that’s why there’s something about the oil drums to the left and the sense of impending doom rocketing down from above; the knowledge that those two Russian pricks are doing nothing but bide their time and maybe the so-called biding has gone on long enough.

 

They have to make a move. They have to. They aren’t mobsters for nothing.

 

He crashes to his knees, dragging Red and Elektra down with him, a hand over each of their heads and he waits for the world to figure out what it wants to do.

 

And then gunshots, two this time. They screech through the air above their heads and echo against the walls and the noise seems to go on for a lot longer than it really does.

 

A moment of silence. It’s loud enough to drown out everything though. Red’s heavy breathing, Elektra’s too. Maria’s voice screaming in his ears telling him to live.

 

And then the world is rattling as the petrol drum explodes next to them and a wave of hot air and debris rains down. Metal twisting against metal screeches behind them and he pushes his hands harder into Murdock and Elektra’s heads, keeping their faces down.

 

Red swears and Frank thinks that might have been the first time he's ever heard him curse.

 

And then just as fast as it started everything stops like someone has snatched all the sound out of the universe and replaced it with a vast nothingness.

 

Breathe. Okay he can do that. He can breathe. The air is hot and smoky but it’ll do for now.

 

Think. Yeah, that’s not coming so easily. His ears are still ringing and his head feels like it’s been stuffed with burning rubber.

 

_Live!_

 

Jesus Christ Maria. Jesus fucking Christ.

 

Karen.

 

Oh god Karen Page.

 

He lifts his head fully expecting to see her lying in front of him in a pool of her own blood. In fact, he's already feeling that familiar rage in his veins, the world closing in and sucking all the life out of it at the same time.

 

_Goddamnit Maria. You can't tell me to live and then kill me the second I do what you say. In what world is that fair?_

 

She’s dead. He knows this.

 

Except…

 

Except she isn’t.

 

Karen Page is fine. She's standing there behind a cloud of smoke, face pale and teeth gritted, a look in her eye that reminds him very much of a she-wolf he saw on the outskirts of Kandahar one night while he was trying so hard not to lose his shit after he’d just agreed to one of Rawlins’ and Schoonover’s side missions. She’d been wary then and Karen Page is wary now but the look of absolute determination in their eyes is exactly the same.

 

He twists to look behind him.

 

The fire is roaring to the left and he realises almost calmly that they now have a limited time to get out of the building, that it’s going to go up in a puff of smoke in a time not too far in the future. In many ways that’s almost a relief because if Mahoney ever found this place intact there’s enough of his DNA all over the floor to put him back on the run for the rest of his life.

 

Jail, after all, isn’t an option. Not again.

 

The Russians both lie dead a few yards away and even through the smoke he can see she plugged them both in the face, single bullets.

 

One shot. One kill.

 

There’s something about Karen Page and a gun.

 

Okay, so he has to move. _They_ have to move. All of them.

 

“C’mon,” he coughs. “C’mon Red.”

 

Every bone in his body objects as he forces himself to his feet. He staggers wildly to the left but Elektra manages to steady him.

 

“You really are kind of useless,” she says good-naturedly.

 

_Yeah Ellie, yeah I guess I am._

 

But useless or not, they shuffle forward to where Karen is still standing, absolutely still, fingers white and bloodless around the grip of the gun.

 

Okay…

 

Okay so she’s not quite used to this, and even though he accepts that more familiarity with this kind of thing might indeed be best at a moment like this, there’s something very comforting in knowing that Karen Page is shocked by what he is capable of.

 

“He had a gun,” she says softly. “He was going to kill all of you.”

 

Her gaze snaps up towards Matt but his face is hard and unreadable and then she looks to Frank. There’s a certain amount of pleading in her eyes but it’s not for forgiveness. It’s something else.

 

Acceptance maybe. He’s not sure.

 

But either way, he finds the strength to stand on his own, let go of Red and Elektra and watch as they almost fall into each other in his wake, Red’s thumb across her lips, her hands on the side of his face and then whispers, kisses.

 

Yeah, they’re going to be okay. Provided they get out of this place before it blows sky high, they’re going to be okay.

 

Karen Page not so much.

 

He looks back at her. The hard determined she-wolf is gone and instead there’s a wild-eyed woman looking at the gun in her hands like she has no idea what it is or why she has it.

 

“Karen?” he says firmly. “Karen, it’s okay.”

 

“Yeah…,” she says uncertainly. “Yeah I know it is.”

 

He nods slowly, reaches for the gun but keeps his eyes on her. She’s shivering and if his damn arm was working he’d put it around her and pull her close, but he can’t. Not now. Not when the fire is coming closer and he knows they have no time to get out of here.

 

“Give me that,” he says gently as he pulls the gun out of her fingers. “It’s okay. I got it.”

 

Just keep it calm. Keep it slow. She’s in shock right now but he’s fairly confident she’ll recover quickly. Still though, taking a life… it’s a big thing. It’s tough and it shouldn’t be something that gets easier.

 

Except, and he’s thinking entirely of himself here, it does.

 

And then Karen kind of shakes herself and she focuses on him and he sees some of the she-wolf come back into her eyes.

 

“Frank,” she says. “You’re okay.”

 

That’s up for debate but he is alive and it’ll have to do for now.

 

Behind him the fire roars and he watches as a stripe of it races along the wooden beams towards the ceiling. The whole place is going to go up and if there are more oil drums hanging around and he suspects there is, it’s not going to be long.

 

“Karen, we need to go,” he says. “We need to get out of here now.”

 

She glances towards Murdock and Elektra.

 

“Yeah,” she says. “Yeah we do.”

 

She shoves her shoulder under his arm and Murdock takes the other and together the four of them head out of the smoke and the fire and into the hell that is Hell’s Kitchen outside.

 

~~~

 

One thing Frank never really considers when Karen Page arrives on his doorstep to set him loose on whatever scum has been terrorising the city without consequence, is what she does afterwards.

 

His mission is always simple: find scumbag, kill scumbag. And he’ll call or text to say it’s done and then go home to his place and clean himself up.

 

What she does during that time is a mystery.

 

It’s not comfortable. Not at all really. He feels they should talk more, that they actually need to get down to the nitty gritty of whatever is or isn’t going on between them. He feels like more needs to be said after what happened all those months ago in the elevator, that he should tell her everything he can about Billy and what he did, that maybe she should meet the Liebermans and Curtis. But they don’t and he’s not sure if that’s coming from him or if it’s her.

 

He wonders if they’re both to blame. Thinks that’s probably close to the truth. She doesn’t want to impose, which is a joke of quite dynamic proportions considering this “arrangement” they have, and he wants her to impose but doesn’t quite know how to tell her. You don’t exactly walk up to a lady and tell her that you’re still in love with your dead wife and consumed with rage over what happened, but maybe she’d like to go on a date next Friday. It seems unfair. And yet sometimes living like this - alone with no one to care for - seems even worse.

 

Which brings him back to the original question: what does Karen Page do after she’s sent him to go and track down some piece of shit like these Russian traffickers?

 

Apparently she sits by her phone and waits for him to text. Apparently she calls Elektra - because women get the hell over themselves and let go of grudges - and they sit together drinking whisky and whiling  away the hours until he calls. Apparently she can’t sleep.

 

He knew none of this. He didn’t even suspect it.

 

But, as the four of them stand there across the Hudson watching the warehouse go up in flames and seeing fire engines and their red and blue lights hurtling down the streets towards it, she tells him that this is what happens. That this is a thing.

 

Elektra’s sharp nod does nothing but drive the point home.

 

“You came for me,” he says softly and Karen looks at him with equal amounts hurt and incredulity.

 

She doesn’t say anything, but then again she doesn’t need to.

 

_I will always come for you._

 

He goes quiet then, lets that idea settle somewhere deep inside as they watch the fire. He wonders if he should have known, wonders how far gone he is that something like this feels as alien as it does.

 

He knows two things for certain though.

 

There’s something about Karen Page and a gun, and Karen Page is a problem.

 

She’s still trembling a little but she also seems calmer now, her hair blowing in the chilly autumn breeze and her hand still resting on his back even though he doesn’t need her to stand upright anymore.

 

Or maybe he does. Who knows?

 

“You alright?” he asks and she nods, doesn’t look at him.

 

“Yeah, I should take you home,” she says and he doesn’t have it in him to object. He can't drive. He wouldn't even want to try.

 

Instead he calls Red where he’s standing by the river, his arm around Elektra, asks him if he’s ever fixed a dislocated shoulder and Murdock nods grimly, tells him to lie down on the cold hard ground and think of something nice.

 

Red always was a hoot.

 

And yet thinking of something nice isn’t so hard when he stops looking at the night sky with its twinkling stars and turns his attention to Karen where she kneels at his side, hand on his belly. It isn’t hard to think of good things when he can smell her hair and her perfume or see her eyes, blue as the ocean.

 

Murdock, for his part is good. Very good. Efficient too, and Frank wonders if this is something he’s just learned out of necessity or if nurse Temple gave him a few tips.

 

He pulls Frank’s arm firmly towards him and when he cries out Karen’s hand finds his and she squeezes hard.

 

“Shhh, shhh, shhh, shhh,” she says and he wonders at how their roles have changed, how they’ve intertwined and come undone.

 

She’s the beginning, he’s the end, but maybe that’s not always true.

 

His arm slides back into the socket with a satisfying clunk and he opens and closes his fist experimentally.

 

He glances up at Murdock as he sits up. “Thanks.”

 

Murdock nods. “You’re gonna need to put some ice on that.”

 

“I’ll do that when I take him home,” Karen says and Red looks at her sharply and even under his mask Frank can see the concern etched into his face. Murdock gets it, he’s just never liked it and whatever he feels for Elektra - and Frank has no doubt it’s a lot - there’s still a remnant left over of what he felt for Karen, a kind of sweet and yet possibly misplaced protectiveness. And Frank can’t blame him either. Red's a good man. He's a good man in many of the ways that Frank isn't.

 

“Karen…” he says but she shakes her head.

 

“Go home Matt,” she whispers. “I’ll be fine.”

 

He’s not happy. Not at all. But Elektra takes his hand.

 

“Come on Matthew. She can handle this.”

 

“But…”

 

“Matthew,” she says firmly. “It’s always been like this. You know it.”

 

_Thanks Ellie. We wouldn’t want to worry him any more than he already is._

 

And yet somehow, Murdock seems to let it go … or whatever it is that he’s always done when he realises that how different Karen Page is to what he always thought.

 

“You sure you’re going to be okay?” he asks Karen and she nods, hauls Frank to his feet.

 

He feels better, steadier. The world isn’t spinning quite so much and even though his head is aching and his arm is still sore both from the dislocation and the burn, he feels alert and focused again.

 

Okay, okay, he can do this.

 

They walk to her car and she pushes him into the passenger seat. She hugs Murdock and then Elektra, thanks them for coming with even though she didn’t ask them to.

 

“What are friends for,” Elektra says and he can’t help but feel that she’s including him in that statement too. And no, he’s not thinking double dates and spending holidays together - that’s still too weird for both historical and personal reasons between the four of them, not least of which is exactly what is and what isn’t going on with him and Karen - but it makes him feel good all the same. Included. He has the Liebermans and Curtis and Karen, and maybe it’s time to expand the horizon of so-called friends. Maybe him and Murdock could live with that.

 

But first… first Karen. Then rest. Everything else is immaterial.

 

She slides behind the wheel, gives him a quick once over. She’s still shaking but when she talks her voice is steady.

 

“You good?”

 

Yeah. Yeah he is. He’ll live. He does as he’s told after all.

 

“Yeah, you?”

 

She nods firmly and they leave the inferno of Hell’s Kitchen behind them.

 

~~~

 

_Live._

 

They don’t talk much on the way home but something changes anyway.

 

Or, more accurately, something that was always there starts to germinate in a way that was not wholly unexpected when he thinks about it.

 

There is, after all, something about Karen Page and a gun.

 

She’s still breathing fast, seemingly swallowing whatever panic is intermittently rising in her throat. He doesn’t think she’ll tip over though. Not yet at least. Not until the adrenalin wanes and by that time, he hopes they’ll both be back at his place where he can deal with it properly or at least deal with it. Proper isn’t really much of a factor here right now.

 

She’s killed two men, she saved his life. Fuck proper. Karen Page gets to do whatever the fuck she likes.

 

Thing is though… thing is those short sharp breaths whistling into her lungs are hard to ignore and he finds himself glancing at her often, wanting to ask if she’s alright but knowing she will say she is. And the truth of it is, he’s not really in much of a position to make it right if it’s wrong. Not now with his burns and aches and wounds. Not now, when all he really wants is something for the pain.

 

Whatever specific pain that may be.

 

Still though, he looks at her to check that she’s okay.

 

And then he just looks at her.

 

And that’s a problem. That’s such a fucking problem.

 

Karen Page is beautiful. That in itself isn’t a thing. That’s a statement of fact. He knows it’s true because he isn’t blind. He knew it was true the first time he looked at her and it’s true now, even if he’s seen the hardness in her eyes and rage in the set of her jaw. She’s beautiful and that isn’t a thing.

 

She’s also so much more. And even though he’ll be the first to admit it’s not hard to get a bit lost in her, for the most part he’s kept that side of himself pretty much as dead as he can. Instead he focused on who she was and how she made him feel; that undeniable belief that he could be good and worthy of redemption, that hope that one day he could heal and be so much more than he is now. And then of course her, her and that fragility that isn’t fragile at all. The steel beneath the surface that crept up on him and slapped him in the face and said no, damnit Frank Castle, you don’t get to do this just because you’re sad. You don’t get to give up.

 

She tore him up and he hasn’t been torn up like that in a long time. He thinks maybe he didn’t realise how that screwed him over even more, because he let it sneak up on him and before he knew it, his heart was swelling out of his chest for her.

 

So yes, again, Karen Page is beautiful and that isn’t a thing.

 

Except right now - right in this moment - it is. It’s a huge fucking thing.

 

It’s dark in the car but the light from outside makes the shadows stand out starkly on her skin. And he catches himself focusing on her throat and the way the muscles move under her skin as she swallows, on the pulse he can see jumping just under her jaw.

He wonders what it would be like to put his lips there, feel her life beating under his lips, scrape his teeth along it like he too is some kind of wolf.

 

He tears his eyes away, forces himself to look out into the street, the cars passing them and the people drunkenly making their way home. He lets himself feel the throbbing in his arm, the pain in his head.

 

But not for long. Never for long.

 

Seconds later and he’s looking at her again. This time at her pale fingers gripping the steering wheel so hard they’ve gone bone white and bloodless. They look the same as they did when she was holding that gun. And no, he can’t think about her and the gun right now. He can’t.

 

But he does.

 

And it’s a very bad idea.

 

Because then he’s looking at her arms, the smooth muscles under her Henley, which are wiry and stronger than he would expect; the ridge of her shoulders and how he imagines rubbing the tension out of them and then, goddamnit, the pulse in her neck.

 

“Something wrong?” she asks glancing at him and then back to the road and he shakes his head.

 

No, nothing is wrong. Nothing but everything.

 

Windows. Streetlights. Drunk people. Stars. Moon. _Breathe_. Sidewalks. Shops. Bars. Dumpsters. _Breathe_. Cars. Apartment blocks. Trees. Alley cats. Litter. _Breathe_.

 

_Breathe. Breathe. Breathe._

 

It occurs to him also that he should be pissed with her. There was never any discussion about her coming after him if he didn’t come home. That was never part of the deal. They all did their bit and if one of them failed he just assumed it meant they were on their own. Except he knows that isn’t true. He would have gone into the depths of hell to save her and he’s pretty sure Murdock would have as well. He underestimated her when he thought she wouldn’t repay the favour. And the fact is he’s too grateful to her to reprimand her now. He knows she’ll be able to win the argument anyway because his will always come down to “I love you and I don’t want you to get hurt.”

 

And that’s not an argument even if it’s true.

 

When he looks back at her - because apparently he has no self control in this - he catches her eye and she looks away quickly.

 

So…

 

So indeed.

 

Okay, so maybe not as out there as he thought. Maybe. She did just risk her life to save his. She’s come through for him every time he’s asked no matter how stupid or ill conceived his ideas have been. Maybe she wants him to impose as much as he wants the same of her.

 

Maybe.

 

Maybe he doesn’t know what to think.

 

Pulse in her neck, smooth lines of her clavicles, swell of her breasts and he forces himself not to look there too long. Then her waist and hips, dips and curves, legs long and slim and he doesn’t think he’s ever seen her in jeans before.

 

He likes it. He likes the pencil skirts too and the summer dresses, the winter coats and the hose. He likes the heels but also the flats and when there is no hose at all.

 

_Stop it. Stop it._

 

Not Maria this time. Not at all. This is him screaming at himself. He wishes it was Maria because maybe then he’d listen but his dead wife, usually so helpful at the worst of times, is silent.

 

He looks down at this hands. There’s blood blooming under his fingernails like little dark flowers. It hurts because shit with fingers and fingernails always hurts. But then again pretty much all of him is hurting right now, outside and in.

 

She said she’d fix him up and he believes that she will. He also has no idea how he’ll get through that. He’s not dying now but he thinks he just might when it comes to that.

 

She turns down a side road that leads to his place. It’s not the greatest apartment in the world - not by a long shot - but it’s more than livable and there’s enough space for him and Tess, the pavement special pitbull mastiff mix who followed him home one day and moved in, never you mind.

 

The truth is he didn’t. Karen Page was right when she told him he was lonely. He was. He _is_. But Tess helps. She helps a lot.

 

They stop outside his block. From here, with the lights shining in the windows and the hastily planted trees outside turning orange in the autumn it looks almost cheerful. Almost warm. It’s not but he can always pretend.

 

She takes a moment to just sit behind the wheel. She doesn’t look at him or anything else really and he watches her breathe and he doesn’t miss that the tremble is still there in her hands.

 

And her pulse. Oh god, her pulse.

 

_Stop it. Stop it._

 

Still not Maria. Still just him.

 

“You alright?” he asks again and she nods, swallows deeply.

 

“Yeah,” she says. “It’s just been a hell of a night.”

 

As if to drive the point home, his shoulder throbs so hard he almost groans out loud.

 

“You didn’t have a choice you know?” he says and leans across the seat to touch her arm. “Killin’ those men? Nothin’ else you coulda done.”

 

She huffs, shakes her head.

 

“No,” she says, finally turning to look at him. “I had a choice.” She purses her lips then, bobs her head like she’s only fully accepting what she’s about to say. “I chose you.”

 

He doesn’t know what to say to that. Mainly because he doesn’t know what it actually means.

 

Another glance at his purple fingernails and then outside. He can smell her perfume still intermingled with smoke and gunmetal. It’s heady in a way it shouldn’t be, intoxicating in a way that maybe only a man like him can truly appreciate.

 

Apartment. Trees. Grass. Bench. _Breathe_. Lights. Doorway. Windows. Stop sign. _Breathe._

 

It’s not working. None of it is.

 

“Okay,” she says after a while, and he’s pretty sure she’s done nothing but watch him in that time. “Let’s get you inside.”

 

_Yes, let’s. No way that could be a disaster._

 

But he gets out of the car and she puts an arm around his middle so he can lean on her as they shuffle towards the entrance and then up three flights of stairs to his apartment.

 

At his door she fishes his keys out of her pocket and yeah, he gave her a spare set because he wanted her to have one and he told himself it was because of Tess and the fact that she needed a safety net if something went awry as it nearly did tonight.

 

It’s reason enough but it’s not the only reason.

 

He wonders how many things he’s done that inadvertently let her into his life and his world that he’s waved it away as practical, logical, when in fact it’s all been about imposing.

 

Well, asshole, for one, you agreed to this bizarre little arrangement you have going. You agreed to be her attack dog if she’d just throw you a kind word and a pat on the head every now and then. You went high and somehow still managed to sink low.

 

And speaking of attack dogs, Tess is busy proving that that is the last thing she is as they step through the door. She’s bouncing on her toes and trotting across the floor to wipe her jowly face on his jeans and give Karen a lick on the hand and give them both a short sharp bark. And despite his wounds and the fact that all he really wants to do is fall down and die, he can’t help how his spirits lift when he sees her. She’s a good dog. He doesn’t know where he would be without her. Or she without him.

 

He tries not to think on that too much.

 

Karen kicks the door shut behind her and the bang echoes down the drafty passage, and then she hauls him into the bathroom, switches on the light and deposits him on the side of the bath before heading back into his apartment and the booze cabinet in the corner.

 

He knows the drill. She doesn’t have to tell him. He reaches behind him with his good arm, grabs the neck of his shirt and hauls it over his head. He gets about halfway before his wounded shoulder objects violently sending a shooting pain down his arm and making him lose his grip on his shirt entirely. He has a vision of Karen Page walking back into his bathroom while he sits here on the tub stuck in his own clothes like a four-year-old child with underdeveloped motor skills.

 

And that’s pretty much exactly what happens.

 

She comes back in, ice packs in one hand and a bottle of whisky in the other, snorts a little when she sees him.

 

Big bad Punisher indeed. Ellie was more right than she knew.

 

“Need some help there Mr Castle?” Karen asks lightly and he rolls his eyes at her, looks to where Tess is sitting just outside the door.

 

She dumps the ice packs on the counter, balances the whisky bottle on the bath rim, and regards him for a second while he just sits there like a dumbass waiting for her to untangle him from his own clothes.

 

She sighs, leans over him so that his head is pretty much level with her breasts, and she takes hold of his shirt, eases it the rest of the way over his head and shoulder. Her knuckles brush his arm against the burn as she does and it doesn’t hurt nearly as much as it ought to.

 

She drops his shirt onto the floor, takes the gun out of his belt and puts it down on the toilet lid and then stands back to survey the damage.

 

He doesn’t shy away from her gaze. He hasn’t got much that she hasn’t seen if he’s honest. Sure, some things, but not much.

 

Even so, he tries to sit up straight and he tells himself it’s so she can see where all the pain is.

 

That’s true, but it’s also not. The pain is everywhere. She knows that already.

 

He’s a mess. He doesn’t need to look to know. And no, it’s not just his arm and the burn. It’s the bruises and the cuts marring his torso, the gash on his forehead, the black eyes and a nose that's probably four times the size it should be, the shallow stab wound in his side that she’ll have to stitch up. Those purple flowers blooming under his nails which hurt like a motherfucker.

 

_Think it’ll make him prettier._

 

_Can’t make him any uglier._

 

Except it can and it has.

 

Ah well, at least he still has his eyes. All the better to see you with and all.

 

He accepts the fact that he might be slightly delirious.

 

She picks up an ice pack again, presses it into his shoulder and he flinches as the cold mixes with the ache and radiates outwards like some kind of cruel and decidedly unpleasant climax to a cruel and decidedly unpleasant encounter.

 

Still though, this - being here with her like this - is the farthest thing from unpleasant he’s experienced in a long time.

 

“Hold that,” she says, nodding at the ice pack. He does what he’s told. Something about her never leaves much room for arguing.

 

She turns back to the basin, grabs a few things from the cabinet, stops for a second to look at herself in the mirror and he wonders if she sees what he does … if she’s ever seen what he does.

 

But she looks away quickly, rummages through the first aid kit until she’s found some swabs and antiseptic cream, glances back at herself but only for a second, and then pulls her own top over her head, throws it onto the floor next to his.

 

This in itself isn’t particularly unusual. It’s easier to patch someone up when you don’t need to worry about your own clothes getting in the way. And she’s wearing a navy singlet underneath which covers everything that needs to be covered and a lot of what doesn’t.

 

Still though, it’s something of a gesture, an indication that this is just something they do and there’s a familiarity to it.

 

Except there really isn’t.

 

There really really isn’t and his eyes are drawn back to that pulse in her neck and again he imagines his lips there.

 

Sponge. Water. Door handle. Shampoo. _Breathe_. Face cloth. Mouthwash. Laundry basket. _Breathe_.

 

She turns back to him, stands still for a few seconds and watches him watch her, and then she leans past him, grabs the whisky and unscrews the cap. She brings the bottle to her lips, takes a swig and he thinks he might genuinely lose his mind as he watches her swallow, and then she holds the bottle to his mouth, hand under his chin.

 

“At least you bought me a drink first,” he says and she scowls at him through a smile.

 

“Yeah,” she says. “Now drink it.”

 

He drinks.

 

Bottle back balancing on the edge of the tub, flash of hard blue eyes and he nods.

 

_You do what you gotta do ma’am. I might not be able to work my own clothes anymore but if there’s one thing I understand it’s pain._

 

She doesn’t wait for him to say anything else. She sinks to the floor between his splayed thighs and goes to work.

 

And this is bad. This is so, so bad.

 

Grouting. Tissues. Cistern. Shower mat. _Breathe_. Window. Blind. Radiator. Neosporin. _Breathe._

 

She starts with the stab wound, flushing it out with some kind of mild saline solution she keeps here specifically for that. It burns and he winces, gasps as he doubles over but then she’s leaning into him and blowing on it and somehow that’s worse.

 

It’s so much worse.

 

Plunger. Toilet seat. Shower caddy. Door frame. _Breathe_. Key. Lock. Tess. Collar. _Breathe_.

 

“Okay?” she asks after a moment.

 

_No, not okay. Not okay at all._

 

“Okay,” he agrees.

 

She grabs the whisky again, holds it to his lips. He messes some down himself but it doesn’t matter. Nothing much matters now.

 

He manages to take the bottle from her, hold it in his injured hand and rest it on his leg. He thinks he’ll need it again soon.

 

And then she’s working on him again, fingers deft as she examines the wound, one hand resting on his belly and he tries so hard not to feel the pressure nor the warmth of it. As with most things concerning him and Karen Page, he fails.

 

“Gonna need stitches,” she says. “Sorry.”

 

He tries to shrug but the pain in his shoulder doesn’t allow for much.

 

“You do what you gotta do,” he says and she gives him a wan smile, reaches for a packet of needles and surgical thread.

 

“Alright.”

 

She works quickly and smoothly, stopping every now and then to push the whisky bottle to his mouth, shaking her head when he offers it to her.

 

“Later,” she says. “When I’m done with you.”

 

_Yeah Karen Page, when you’re done with me. Think there’s going to be anything of me left? Will you even allow it?_

 

He doesn’t think she will.

 

So he sits and he drinks and he feels the pinch of every stitch, the smoothness of her hands, the way her fingers curl on his waist, run over his hips.

 

He thinks he might go out of his head. He thinks he already has.

 

More booze. Could be that he’ll get drunk. Maybe he should. Maybe that will let him say everything he needs to say to her. Maybe it’ll loosen his tongue and then loosen hers too. Maybe all they need is some liquid courage, and he finds that funny because he’s never needed to supplement courage with anything before.

 

But then she’s talking and he knows she’s only had one sip of whisky. He knows because he watched her drink it down and he didn’t know where else to look. She always was braver than him anyway. And maybe his own angst is immaterial; after all she's between his legs, her body pressed up against his, and he’s pretty sure he’s not going to be able to keep much about how he's feeling a secret for much longer. It seems pointless to even try.

 

Still, she’s talking and he’s listening and it feels like something they do often but not nearly often enough.

 

“When I was little…” she stops, swallows, starts again. “When I was little, things … weren’t great.”

 

 _Okay_ …

 

Okay so this is new. This is somewhere they haven’t gone before. He’s flung pretty much every bit of his pain over Maria and the kids at her at one point or another. He’s let her in and then he’s kicked her out and she’s never done anything to make him feel that he can’t do either of those things. But he hasn’t missed that she never reciprocates. He hasn’t missed that she harbours something deep and dark and despite giving her every opportunity he could think of to open up, she never has.

 

Until now.

 

He doesn’t say anything. He watches the top of her head, the way her hair falls over her shoulder. He feels the pinch of the stitches and the warmth of her hand and her breath against his skin as she continues.

 

“I always tried to think of the worst thing that could happen,” she says. “Every day… every situation or problem, I always thought about everything that could go wrong and I just let my mind carry on down whatever rabbit hole it found.”

 

A final pinch and she cuts the thread, smooths a bandage over the wound and then turns to the bruises and abrasions on his ribs and belly.

 

“I figured if I could just accept the worst, if I could convince myself it was going to happen I could live with it and survive it, then I’d be okay and I’d get through. And if the worst didn’t happen then that was just a happy surprise.”

 

“Hope for the best, prepare for the worst,” he says and she shakes her head.

 

“No, you don’t hope for the best Frank. You never do that.”

 

He thinks this might be the first time Karen Page has actually broken his heart. She’s come close before - the night with Schoonover and then again the day she risked her own life and freedom for his and she told him to go and leave her in that elevator - but this is different. This is new and even though he won’t press, he won’t ask her for more than she’s willing to tell, he can’t help but picture a little scared blonde girl - no older than Lisa - furiously trying to figure out just how bad things can get and making peace with that.

 

“No,” he says, putting the bottle down and touching her shoulder. “You don’t.”

 

She leans into his hand for a second, rubs her head against his knuckles, and then goes back to swabbing his wounds with cotton wool. He’s not sure if she’s noticed but her free hand is resting high on his on his torso, thumb rubbing idly across his skin as she talks.

 

“It’s not a good way to live,” she says. “Without hope. Never giving yourself that.”

 

“No. No it ain’t.”

 

“You know how it is Frank.”

 

He does. He really does and he picks up the whisky again, takes a swig, hands it to her and this time, she takes one too.

 

One final sweep of her thumb across his skin and she almost touches his nipple before she moves to the burn on his arm, cupping his elbow to maneuver him how she wants to.

 

She’s patched him up before, chances are she’ll patch him up again, but this - like almost everything about tonight - feels different. Usually she’s gentle, hands barely touching him as she bandages wounds or presses antiseptic swabs into his skin, but tonight it feels like her hands are everywhere.

 

Shower curtain. Taps. Bodywash. Toothpaste. _Breathe_. Razor. Shaving cream. Water glass. Pill box. _Breathe_. Tiles. Bath mat. Cotton buds. Mirror. _Breathe_. Towel rail. Storage cabinet. Soap dish. Aftershave. Plug hole. _Breathe._

 

_Breathe. Breathe. Breathe._

 

He’s not breathing.

 

He’s not breathing at all. His lungs gave up on all that the day he met Karen Page and he’s been walking around slowly suffocating ever since.

 

She, on the other hand, has not. Not at all. She doesn’t even miss a beat.

 

“I thought I was good at it,” she says. “Thought it made me pragmatic and strong.”

 

“You are pragmatic. You are strong.”

 

She huffs softly, rubs some salve onto the burn.

 

“I’m not good at it though,” she says. “I still do it. I try to imagine the worst. I try. I think about what would happen if one day you and Matt and Elektra were just gone. I’ve thought you were dead before, Matt too and I tell myself I survived once and I can do it again.”

 

Bandage on his burn, hand running unnecessarily over his wounded shoulder, fussing with the placement of the ice pack so that it doesn’t move and she can run the tips of her fingers over bicep, little trails of cold fire spiralling out from under his skin.

 

He shivers. It’s impossible to hide but she doesn’t seem to notice or care.

 

She takes the whisky bottle, brings it to her lips. He watches the muscles in her throat move again and oh god, that pulse is still hammering away.

 

Toilet roll. Waste paper basket. Light switch. Deodorant. _Breathe_. Dental floss. Whisky. _Breathe._ Golden hair. Blue eyes. _Breathe_. Pale skin. Pink lips. _Breathe_.

 

“I tried to do that every time I ask you to go and sort something out, every time you do this for me just because I ask, just because you want to do something for me …” she stops, frowns. “That's true isn't it? You do it because you think it'll please me.”

 

There never really was a time for denial when it came to them. There wasn't before and there isn't now. And even though on some level he wants the punishing, he needs it to keep himself sane for whatever definition of sane he's working towards at any given moment, she's still right. He does it for her. He does it because he wants her to pat his head, tell him he's a good boy.

 

So he nods and so does she.

 

“I tell myself you might not come back and that that’s something I can live with. But tonight when you didn't come back I realised …,” she trails off, sits back on her haunches but doesn’t look at him. “Tonight I realised that the worst is too horrible to contemplate. I can’t accept it. I can’t make peace with it.”

 

“Karen…”

 

“No,” she says, shaking her head. “I can’t lose you Frank. I _won’t_. And if that means I have to kill a man or two or even more, I can live with that. I can and I will.”

 

_I chose you._

 

_Breathe. Breathe._

 

Find air. Find it. It’s here somewhere. Just suck it in. Let it inside. It’ll be okay.

 

And then her. Oh god her.

 

He slides his hand up from her shoulder to cup her jaw, tilts her face upwards. He’s not surprised to see tears in her eyes, not surprised that they’re making little clean rivers down her cheeks.

 

She covers his hand with hers.

 

“I’m giving myself this Frank. I’m letting myself want it.”

 

_Live._

 

Jesus Christ Maria. Jesus fucking Christ, is this what you meant?

 

And then she’s launching herself at him, hands braced on his thighs and she's moving upwards and into him so quickly that he almost doesn’t see her coming, he’s almost not prepared. But he is. A man makes a plan when Karen Page is involved, and he does.

 

He drops the ice pack and it falls into the tub with a thunk, and then both his arms, useless and not so useless, are closing around her drawing her in as her mouth finds his.

 

She tastes of whisky and lipgloss, sweet and bitter at the same time, and her tongue is hot and wet in his mouth and he surges forward into her too, ignoring the sting of his burns and bruises and dragging her up so they're both standing and even the bright flare of pain in his arm, nor the corresponding one in his side, can stop him.

 

He's not sure what could stop him now.

 

One hand in her hair, the other sliding downwards from her waist and he's walking her backwards out of the bathroom, trying to navigate his way around their discarded clothing and Tess, and find a space where he can press himself against her, keep her frantic hands on him still.

 

Because they are frantic. They're in his hair, on his shoulders, running down his back and then creeping between the two of them to grip at his hips, his ribs and then upwards, thumb brushing the pebbled skin of his nipple. She’s deliberate this time. He thinks it might have been deliberate the last time too.

 

She's like a little fire, every part of her nothing but heat and smooth skin. Sugary sweetness. And she burns him. She burns him worse than any unskilled asshole with a blowtorch and a mean streak could. And he can't wait for her to do it again.

 

Her breath rattles out of her chest as he finally backs her into his bedroom wall, wedges a knee between her thighs and she opens up to him, legs splaying around his, pelvis pressing down on him and even through two layers of jeans, he can feel the white hot heat of her.

 

He groans into her mouth. She's too much. Even pinned like this she's far too much for him and he wonders if maybe this is all his fault too. Probably is. It seems likely.

 

Because now that he has her like this... now that she's surging around him and has somehow managed to stop touching him long enough to drag her singlet over her head - he thinks he helps, he can't be sure - he doesn't know what to first. He feels like a kid at a fairground where everything is free and he's been fast tracked to the front of every queue.

 

He pulls back for a second to look at her; her swollen lips, her smooth neck, the dent of her collarbones and then the tops of her breasts where they rise out of her black lacy bra.

 

He can look now. He's _allowed_. He doesn't have to stop himself. He's not sure he ever did.

 

Lower. Lower to her ribs, like hard steps under her skin, her flat belly and the curve of her hips and then the tops of her thighs... her cunt pressed against her knee.

 

He groans again. He's wanted this so long and now that it's happening in some form or another, he has no idea what to do with any of it.

 

Too many possibilities. Too many options.

 

Karen Page. Karen Page. Karen Page. _Breathe_.

 

No, no breathing. It isn't allowed. Not here. Not here when there are so many possibilities under his hands.

 

And then as if she knows, as if she can read his thoughts and he's not so sure she can't, she arches her neck, tilts her head to the side, and all he can see is her pulse and all he wants to do is put his mouth there.

 

So he does.

 

He buries his face in her throat. Her hair smells like smoke but he doesn't care and then he's planting a chain of sloppy kisses over her skin, leaving shining wet marks behind him before running his tongue back over her pulse in a long, heavy line.

 

She squirms against him, body rolling forward and pressing down hard on his thigh, hands grabbing at him and nails sharp on his skin.

 

She's not controlled and there's little finesse to her movements and there's something hugely comforting in that as he bites down on the hollow of her throat and his teeth scrape across her hard enough to leave marks.

 

Hand sliding over her ribs, up over the smooth satin cup of her bra, the lace edging and then the swell of her breast, over her shoulder and then down to undo the catch. He fumbles for a second, but it unclips easily and slides off her arms, lost on the floor somewhere with her top.

 

He doesn't think he can look at her. Not yet. He doesn't think his stupid oxygen deprived brain could handle it so he tangles his fingers in her hair, cups the back of her head, holds her still while he tastes her and teases her and feels her skin prickling under his hands and mouth.

 

And then she's pressing into him, dragging him closer, nipples hard little circles against his torso.

 

Somewhere something tells him this is moving too fast, that they don't need to rush, not now. That after everything she's just told him maybe rushing will only reinforce that this is fleeting and time isn't on their side.

 

And there's no reason that needs to be true.

 

But he can't stop kissing her. He never wants to stop kissing her. He’d kiss her forever.

 

And, as he lifts his head from her throat to her lips and her tongue slides between his teeth, he thinks he just might do that. It’s a good plan. It really is, even though he hasn’t thought about it more than getting her out of the rest of her clothes and into his bed. He’s pretty sure he can fill in the blanks as he goes.

 

But then his arm - of course his fucking arm.

 

She arches forward, using his shoulders for leverage, as his hands slide down to her ass to lift her, and that's when a pain so sharp shoots through him that for a second everything goes dark and he sees stars.

 

He's not sure what he does, whether it's gasp or shout, but she lets go of him immediately and takes a step backwards while he grips at his own shoulder. For a moment nothing happens, nothing at all and he thinks she might be coming to her senses, wondering why on God’s earth they’re doing this stupid, crazy thing.

 

She wouldn’t be wrong. It is crazy. It is stupid. And it’s so wrong it’s gone all the way around to being right.

 

But then she touches his bicep gently, bites her lip and looks at him.

 

_God Karen Page, don't look at me like that. You looked at me like that once when there was no time and the world was falling apart around us. Don't let that happen again._

 

But it is happening again. She's trembling and her eyes are bloodshot and they're breaking each other's hearts as hard as they can.

 

He can save this too though. He can save them.

 

He knows how.

 

He moves into her again, presses his forehead to hers. And he's breathing. Somehow he's found all that air that seemed so elusive and he's dragging it into himself and it feels like he's dragging her in along with it.

 

Maybe she was air all along. He thinks that's a solid possibility.

 

Breathe. Breathe. Breathe. _Karen Page._ Breathe. Breathe. Breathe. _Karen Page_.

 

So he does.

 

And she does too. And that's all they do for a very long time.

 

It's different from the day he saved her from Lewis and she saved him right back. He doesn't have to leave. There's not an entire precinct waiting outside the door for them. He doesn't have a gun to her head and…

 

_(Goddamnit kid, didn't your father ever tell you not to hurt a woman)_

 

...he doesn't have to go and avenge Maria. He doesn't have to die to live again.

 

He can just live and he wonders if that is what Maria has been trying to tell him all along. She always was so much smarter than him.

 

He brings his hands up to cup her face, fingers sliding into her hair. She traces the shape of his jaw, his ears, neck, shoulders and her breathing is just as hard as his.

 

They don’t need to rush. They shouldn’t.

 

And he won’t.

 

When he kisses her, he's slow and gentle, chaste even, and the taste of her is sweeter than ever. He could drown and he wouldn't fight it. The concept of suffocating has taken on a different meaning for him.

 

And when he pulls away she says his name and he swallows it down.

 

_Breathe. Breathe. Breathe._

 

He does.

 

~~~

 

He asks her not to leave and she says she won’t. She won’t leave him. Not tonight. Not ever.

 

He thinks forever is a long time to promise something like that but he’ll take it. It’s a gift and so is she.

 

She doesn’t bother to put her singlet or bra back on and he’s mildly surprised when she turns down his offer of a spare pair of sweatpants and instead shimmies out of her jeans to stand there in the middle of his bedroom in nothing but her silky underwear.

 

She fetches his gun from the bathroom, sits down on the bed next to him and removes the magazine, turns it over in her hands.

 

He puts his hand on her back, rubs her between the shoulder blades.

 

He wants her. He wants her so much that his bones are aching for her, but somehow this is sweeter. Karen Page sitting on his bed, mostly naked with moonlight playing on her skin. He doesn’t need anything else.

 

“What are you doin’?” he asks even though he already knows.

 

She looks at him, small wan smile curving on her lips.

 

“We need to put this away,” she says. “We don't need it. It's bad for us.”

 

He has to agree. She's right. It is bad for them.

 

There really is something about Karen Page and a gun. But there’s something just about Karen Page too.

 

“Okay,” he says, taking the gun out of her hands.

 

“Okay?” she’s surprised. She didn’t expect him to agree so easily. What she doesn’t know or seemingly doesn’t understand is that it is easy. Anything for her is easy. He’ll kill for her and die for her.

 

Apparently he’ll live for her too.

 

“Okay,” she says firmly and leans in to kiss him. “Okay.”

 

She gets him into bed, fetches some swabs from the bathroom and finishes cleaning up his face as best she can. When she’s done she regards him for a moment and he lets himself look at her properly, all of her, her face, her breasts with their pale nipples, her waist and belly, stretched and smooth, hips curvier than he had thought and then her long slim legs.

 

She's beautiful. It was a problem. It's not now.

 

And then she walks to the opposite side of the bed and slides in next to him and she's warm and soft and he wonders why they never sorted this shit out before, why they haven't been doing this for ages, why they wasted so much time.

 

He puts his arm around her shoulders and she rests her head on his chest, fingers running over his ribs and belly. He kisses her hair, tries to ignore the maddening throbbing between his legs and then gives up caring about it. There's too many other far more important things happening right now than that.

 

So he holds her and he kisses her and she kisses him back and then he drifts and she does too.

 

“I love you,” he whispers and he means it from the bottom of his heart. It's not even a confession. Not truly. He's always loved her and she's always known that.

 

“I'm not going to make peace with the worst anymore,” she says. “I'm not going to live like that.”

 

“You don't need to,” he kisses her hair again. “ _We_ don't need to.”

 

One day he thinks they might both believe it.

 

~~~

 

The next morning he’s bruised and sore and stiff and his body feels like it’s some kind of prison that’s meting out punishment for all his sins. And there are so many sins.

 

Every part of him aches. Except one. His heart is heavy but it doesn’t hurt.

 

He opens his eyes and she’s already looking at him and he has no idea how long she’s been doing that.

 

She smiles and he does too, and then she leans in and kisses him long and deep.

 

“Good mornin’,” he rumbles.

 

“You sure it's good? You look like a couple of mobsters went to town on you.”

 

_You look like everything I've ever wanted._

 

He touches her hair.

  

“Yeah I'm sure," he says. "Someone was lookin’ out for me."

 

Two people to be more precise. One dead, one very much alive. Somehow it feels like he's making peace with that.

 

She shifts so that her breasts are pressed against his torso and she traces the lines of his face and suddenly she's not smiling anymore and her eyes are hard and serious.

 

“I want this,” she says.

 

He runs a finger down her cheek.

 

“Me too.”

 

She's the beginning, he's the end, but he's realised they're not walking a straight line anymore.

 

And then she’s kissing him again and his aches and pains seem very unimportant right now. He pulls at her and, as she moves to straddle him and he resolves to give himself up to wherever this leads - even if that’s not really anywhere yet -, he hears a voice in the back of his head.

 

_Live, Frank. Live._

 

Yeah, Maria. Yeah. I get it now.

 

He lives.


End file.
